“Choose them as you like, my dear, as they are all for you and Tom when I am no more!”
I thanked him profusely between sneezes.
He frequently assured me, while I was at Tregunter, that the estate should be my husband’s; and I do believe Mr. Robinson was impatiently, if quietly, counting the hours until the gentleman met his maker.
Whilst I had become the object of the squire’s attentions, Miss Betsy and Mrs. Molly observed me with jealous eyes. It was abundantly evident that they considered me an interloper whose manners attracted Mr. Harris’s esteem and who was likely to diminish their divided influence in the family. I found them daily growing weary of my society, perceived by their sighs and sidelong glances when I was complimented by the visiting neighbors on my looks or my taste in the choice of my dresses. Envy at length assumed the form of insolence. The women perpetually taunted me on the folly of appearing like a woman of fortune, with a fondness for fine clothes and leisurely pursuits, such as music and reading.
For three weeks I endured these constant jibes with patience. Knowing that Mr. Harris was still disposed to think favorably of me, at last I thought it most prudent to depart Tregunter, lest through the machinations of Miss Betsy and Mrs. Molly I should lose the share I had gained in his affections. Yet imagine my surprise when the squire insisted that he should meet my mother! Quite like the worthy gentleman, he saw me safely returned to Bristol, accompanying me back across the Channel, and riding with Tom and me all the way.
My gentle mother received him with her customary grace and cordiality. Now that she was alert to Mr. Robinson’s penchant for dissembling and untruths, his “uncle” had scarce been in Bristol for a day when she called my attention to a most intriguing detail.
Mr. Robinson and Mr. Harris had quit my mother’s apartment to avail themselves of a morning stroll. Mother had suggested that they might like to view the hustle and bustle of the wharves, and Mr. Harris, a ship fancier, had responded with alacrity.
Mother drew me into her boudoir and sat beside me on her divan. What she told me was nothing short of startling.
She called my attention to the fact that the squire’s physiognomy, in addition to its more than passing ruddiness, owing to the great amount of time he spent out of doors, was somewhat marred and pitted: proof positive that he had survived the pox. Mother posed a question concerning the mendacious Mr. Robinson: Had my husband been exposed to, and escaped unscathed by, the disease before he’d even met our family?
Once I set my mind to solving the riddle, it took me no more than a few moments to figure it out, and my conclusion was exceeding unpleasant. We had been duped again, the victims of another of Mr. Robinson’s deceits. “No wonder he was so attentive during my illness—and George’s,” I exclaimed. “In playing the martyr, he played us for fools! I’ll wager—”
“Don’t speak like a gambler, Mary dear; it’s vulgar.”
I jumped up from the divan and began to pace. “But don’t you see? ’Tis certain then, he was variolated when his father was suffering from the malady. The inoculation would have given Tom but a mild case of the pox, and therefore, he couldn’t catch it again.”
Mother was unable to hide her look of dismay. It pained her that I continued to be the subject of a husband’s deception, a fate she knew too well. “But now that father and son are reconciled regarding your marriage and Mr. Harris is truly well disposed toward Mr. Robinson, let us pray the young man has learnt to mend his ways and has put an end to his falsehoods.”
As it appeared to be a certainty that I should one day be châtelaine to Tregunter House and its vast estate, the boisterous and vulgar Mr. Harris was introduced to Mother’s respectable friends and partook with us of many dinner parties and dances. I was his idol. He would dance with me, stand by my shoulder and sing with me whilst I played upon the harpsichord—in short, I was to him the most delightful of beings. My husband was now thoroughly convinced that in his pretty, clever wife’s abilities to charm his “uncle” he had made a good match indeed, no doubt counting the months until a grieving Mrs. Molly presented him with the iron keys to Tregunter. Silently, I counted my single blessing over and over again: owing to his consultation of my advice in every little improvement, and his myriad attentions to me, the squire had most certainly made us believe that our position was assured and an affluent and prosperous future was just on the horizon.
Ten
Making an Entrance
1774…age sixteen
After passing many days at Bristol, Mr. Harris returned to Wales and my husband and I set out for London. Mr. Robinson’s mind was easy, and his hopes were confirmed by the kindness of his uncle. Our marriage was no longer a secret and he now considered himself the happiest of mortals. On the heels of Mr. Harris’s hearty welcome, we had earnestly set about our duty to beget the next generation of heirs to Tregunter.
Back in London, we moved into a new residence at number thirteen Hatton Garden, furnishing our marital abode with liveried servants and peculiar elegance, sparing no expense. In addition to our domestic establishment,
Mr. Robinson had purchased a handsome—and spanking new—phaeton, with saddle horses for his own use.
“Where is all the money coming from?” I marveled, as highboys and candelabra, a Kirkman harpsichord (to replace the one we’d had to sell
